


Finders, Keepers.

by StarlingGirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like Clint had intended to steal the damn thing.</p>
<p>And it’s not like it matters either way, right? Because it’s just a leather jacket; it’s not important or meaningful or relevant in any way and –</p>
<p>– and the truth is, Clint feels like a teenage girl stealing her boyfriend’s college hoodie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finders, Keepers.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thefallofgallifrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefallofgallifrey/gifts).



> Somewhere on the internet is a picture of Jeremy Renner in a leather jacket that looks a lot like Tony Stark's. Hence, this fic.
> 
> As always, I don't own anything; credit to what-the-stark for riffing off the original idea with me, and radon-canyons for wanting fic and thus encouraging me to finally actually write the thing.
> 
> Unbeta'd; any mistakes are my own.

 It’s not like Clint had _intended_ to steal the damn thing.

And it’s not like it matters either way, right? Because it’s just a leather jacket; it’s not important or meaningful or relevant in any way and –

– and the truth is, Clint feels like a teenage girl stealing her boyfriend’s college hoodie.

He’d found it tossed carelessly over the back of his chair in his cramped apartment late one morning after Tony had already bolted, shamelessly taking advantage of Clint’s coffee machine (and Clint, for that matter) before saying something about a new Stark energy project and heading out of the door. He’d intended to give it back.

(Still intends to.)

But then he’d slung it on as he ran out of the door when he’d realised he was twenty minutes late to meet Natasha, a woman who categorically did not like to be kept waiting. And it had been comfortable, and it had perhaps smelled a little like Tony, and he’d caught his reflection in a shop window on his way past and – well, it had looked good.

And so it’s still hung on the back of his door, and it’s been five weeks, maybe six, since he’d first looked at it and thought ‘I must give that back to Tony’. He still thinks it every time he picks it up, but then he slips it on instead, and is it possible to be addicted to a leather jacket? Because every time he tells himself it’s the last time, that he can stop whenever he wants to, that it’s not a problem.

It’s definitely a problem, he realises, when he starts planning his days around whether he can wear the jacket or not.

* * *

 

He never wears the jacket when there’s a chance he’ll run into Tony. Not so much because he feels guilty about having borrowed (stolen) the thing, but more because he’s mortified at the thought of Tony finding out that Clint’s been sneaking around in his jacket for weeks now. Months. Sure, they’re a couple, but they don’t exactly go in for the whole affectionate thing.

There’s casual touching, there’s kissing, there’s more innuendo than _anyone_ else on the team can deal with, and there’s sex. A _lot_ of sex. Sometimes there’s something that almost amounts to a serious conversation, but luckily they’re both quite adept at replacing those with more sex fairly quickly.

(Nothing like a blowjob to stave off conversations about commitment, and that’s a motto Clint’s prepared to live by.)

So the fact that Clint’s been wearing Tony’s jacket, running his fingers over the scuffed edges of the cuffs, revelling in the softness of lining, trying not to think about how much it probably cost and _absolutely_ not fixating on the fact that it was Tony’s warmth that once filled it out is just plain embarrassing.

He’s fairly sure Natasha’s figured it out by now. She doesn’t say a word, but he can feel her tight-lipped judgement from a mile off. To hell with her; he’ll get all gooey about wearing his boyfriend’s clothes if he wants to. He’s due some normalcy, thank you very much.

* * *

 

“Barton, we’re late,” Tony gripes, and completely ruins the urgency in his voice by pressing himself up against Clint’s back with an arm hooked around him, and landing a kiss just below his ear.

“Like you’ve ever cared about punctuality,” Clint retorts, trying and failing to focus on getting his door unlocked while Tony’s breath is playing hot across the shell of his ear. “I don’t care how late we are, I’m not going anywhere in my damn _uniform-_ ” he finally gets the door open, fingers already working at zips, catches, straps. It’s a well-practiced routine, by now, and he knows that Tony has a street map, A-Z, of how fastest to get Clint out of the thing.

Tony’s got them a reservation at some restaurant or other, and steak is steak wherever you eat it in Clint’s eyes, but apparently this is _special_ steak, the kind you have to order three months in advance, presumably so they can start feeding the cow on liquid gold, or something, to justify the amount they’ll make you pay for it. Not that the place will care if they’re late; Tony Stark tends to be able to get away with these kind of things.

He gently pushes away Tony’s fingers as they work at unfastening his pants; Clint knows (from experience) that any help he receives from Tony in this department can only end one way – and they don’t have time for that right now. As awesome as post-mission, adrenaline-high shower sex sounds right now, Clint also hasn’t eating a damn thing for near-on twelve hours. If this is the kind of restaurant that serves two green beans and an ounce of meat and calls it a meal, there’s a very real possibility that Clint will demand Tony take him to Burger King instead.

He doesn’t shower – for once in his life, he hasn’t been blown up on duty, leaving him covered in blood and dust and debris – but shuts himself in the bathroom to splash water on his face and hands, dubiously sniff himself and add another layer of deodorant, just in case. Then he’s shimmying into his jeans and pulling his boots back on, striding towards the hallway while he’s pulling a t-shirt over his head and ushering Tony towards the door where he snags the jacket hanging on the back and shrugs it on, as is habit now –

It takes Tony the longest of moments, but then he does a double-take, freezes just beyond the doorway and narrows his eyes at Clint’s torso.

“Barton,” he says, steadily, “is that my jacket?”

Clint can feel an expression of horror spreading gradually across his face as he looks down at the jacket he’s wearing like it’s appeared from nowhere – and yeah, this is the jacket that Tony left in this apartment probably months ago, and that Clint’s been secretly wearing ever since. He considers for a moment, thoughts laced with panic, and all he can manage is a hesitant, drawn-out “maybe?”, more of a question than an answer.

He looks up into to Tony’s dark eyes and immediately reaches up to slide the jacket off, apologies already tumbling from his mouth in a heady rush.

“Man, I’m sorry,” he mumbles, all in a rush, “I didn’t mean to – I mean, it was totally presuming, but it’s just… well, you know, I didn’t have a jacket and you left this one here. And I was absolutely going to give it back, but it’s a real nice jacket and it sort of smelled like you and I – I just sort of _borrowed_ it, didn’t mean to keep it -”

Tony cuts him off, hands encircling Clint’s wrists to prevent him from shrugging the jacket off entirely, and Clint’s words die on his lips.

“You’ve been wearing this?” Tony asks, voice low, and Clint swallows, nods once. Is Tony mad? He tries to remember what Tony looks like angry, sounds like angry, but he’s only ever really seen him pissed off – and that’s different, that’s when he gets in your face and mouthy and insults everything you hold dear. Right now he’s just _staring,_ and the expression on his face is unfathomable.

And then Clint’s back hits the wall, and Tony’s fingers are still tight around Clint’s wrists and Clint doesn’t have time to breathe or even _think_ before Tony’s kissing him.

It’s not the usual kind of kiss. It’s insistent and it’s demanding and it’s _possessive_ in a way that Tony’s never been before, not further than slinging a pointed arm around Clint’s waist or shoulders when someone seems a little too interested. There’s teeth thrown in, scraping across his lip and nipping a sharp bud of pain into his skin before it’s soothed by a swipe of tongue, and Tony’s fingers are so tight around his wrists that Clint can almost feel his bones sliding together.

It’s undeniably and irrefutably arousing.

When Tony eventually pulls away – dragging his teeth across Clint’s lip one last time for good measure – they’re both wide-eyed and breathless, pupils blown and chests rising and falling and lips parted and shiny and swollen. The look on Tony’s face can only be described as _smug_ , a self-satisfied little smile and a glint in his eyes that says he got what he wanted (as per usual).

He releases Clint’s wrists, pulls the jacket up a little at his shoulders, adjusts it around his waist; his hands smooth the leather across Clint’s chest as they make sure it sits right, makes sure that it looks good.

“We’re late,” he says, as though he hadn’t just physically pinned Clint to a wall. And then he turns – the bastard – and walks away, and Clint’s left leaning against the wall just outside of his apartment, head falling back a little as he tries to catch his breath.

At least it answers the question about giving the damn thing back.

* * *

 

It becomes like a game. Clint steals Tony’s stuff and wears it, and Tony always, _always_ reacts the same way, regardless of company – a fact which Clint learned the hard way. As did several trainee field agents and Coulson.

From t-shirts (“God, that’s a good look on you,”) to sunglasses (“Cute, Barton, but I’m going to need those back,”) to a slight experiment with Iron Man boxers (“Do you know how hard it is to pop a boner with your own face staring at you?”), Clint ignores playful jibes about living up to his heritage to steal more and more from Tony.

It all goes back, eventually – when it gets washed or when Tony needs a t shirt in a hurry, or when he peels the clothing off Clint’s body. But the jacket?

Well, Tony hasn’t asked for it back, yet. Finders keepers, right?


End file.
